


Trimming

by omiceti



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omiceti/pseuds/omiceti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in New York for her murderer's trial, Alex is having trouble sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trimming

I fell into another, different from you. Softer, sweeter, less damaged, as far from you as are the quiet green fields and sad autumn days of my town from the concrete and steel and the sharp elbows and sharp words of our city. This city, its grit and grime and crime and shadows and its unutterable beauty, glittering and lethal and lovely beyond all telling of it.

The noise from the street is comforting, as achingly familiar as your nervous energy, prowling the outer room as though pacing in front of the door will keep me safe this time, will make it up to me. Maybe you’ll let yourself sleep tonight, maybe you’ll let me wake up with your hand at my hip, your lips at the nape of my neck, your tears drying on my shoulder.

He wasn’t guilty, didn’t cry, didn’t remind me of you, ever. He was the type of the common man, no secrets, no shames, who probably live in suburbs and small cities all over this country, the kind I’m sure I’ll meet wherever they send me next, Flagstaff or Spokane or Birmingham or Roanoke. State university, accounting degree, beige pile carpets, maroon Acura, a few buddies but no pets. A man with open eyes and gentle hands, without edges, without places I could break him if I felt like trying. The kind who didn’t burn, the kind who didn’t veil over, a good man, like I told you, and oh, Olivia, you shouldn’t have been jealous, you shouldn’t be jealous. Because Emily’s dead, in a car accident, probably—ordinary people die in ordinary ways—and he’ll never know better.

And it’s all slipping into itself, here and there, you and him, her and me, like a puzzle with pieces I can’t quite fit back together, like a fistful of sand slipping through my fingers. Brown hair, brown eyes: yours, his. Here is the ceiling with the water stain; here is the ceiling with the fan. Here is the sidewalk lined with flowers; here is the sidewalk lined with trash. Here is the mirror: I am her, I am you, I am him, I have no reflection. Here is the city, the buildings blushing peach as the setting sun slants across them; here is the town, the light clear and pure and plain until night falls on soccer fields and supermarkets, cloaking the sky in stars. I want to go walk with you through the city, wandering Bleecker and Spring and all the alleys you make safe until I can’t find anything but you; I want to see spring with him, watching the cherry trees bud and blossom. You’re out there against the door, pacing with your closed face hard and protective, and he’s out there at his kitchen table, crying with his open face in his gentle hands, and I’m out there off Route 53, dead and glassy-eyed like the dream I can’t stop having, and I’m safe, spinning, and I am lost, here.


End file.
